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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25403482">Let the World Burn for All I Care</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder'>Wind_Ryder</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Methuselah's Children [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/F, F/M, First Person POV: Nicolo, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, canon character death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:00:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25403482</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicolo and Yusuf have taken a break from the others to build a life in Libya, when Lykon comes to visit. They don't know it, but it will be the last time they ever see Lykon alive again. </p><p>____</p><p>How the team discover they do not have eternity after all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Quynh | Noriko/Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Lykon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Methuselah's Children [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839811</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>455</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Let the World Burn for All I Care</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I use the word "Orient" because it's what 11-12th century Nicolo would have referred to it as. This is a dated phrase and should not be used in the modern day when referring to Asia, "the East", or any other person/culture/community.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are not many places that people who look like Yusuf and people who look like myself can go together and live in peace. There are even fewer places where all of our family can travel unmolested. Quynh draws eyes no matter where she goes. She is strange and obviously foreign to those in Europe, too pale and slight for those in Africa, and only a vague oddity in the lands past Syria. Lykon, with his dark skin and unabashed behavior, draws an ire from Europe but not from Africa or Syria. Andromache has a bone structure and bearing that make her acceptable in Egypt, manageable in Syria, welcomed in Europe, and misunderstood in the Orient. Yusuf cannot go to Europe, can go to Africa, and it depends on the decade where he belongs in Syria. My decades and his decades do not intersect, there. For if his people are in power, mine are outcast. If mine are in power, his are persecuted. </p><p>The Orient is the most accepting of us five, but only on a cursory level. We find little work, we gain little trust, and we live as outcasts on the edges of society there. I enjoy their food, their culture, their science. I despise living as a hermit, unable to assist anyone or anything. I wish to learn, to read their books and understand their peoples. I wish to walk their streets and share in their knowledge. I wish to surround myself with laughing children and entertain myself with the arts of the time. I cannot do that if I am banished to a glade with suspicious looks cast my way. We only stay a short while in the Orient. Then we return to the chaos of navigating the desert plains, the heat of India, and the battlefields of Syria, Europe, and Africa. </p><p>We depart from each other’s company two hundred years after we first unite. It is easier to find a home for two or three people, than it is all five. Andromache is always looking for a fight, and while I agree some fights are necessary, I also wish for so much more. </p><p>Yusuf and I decide to make a home in Libya. Yusuf's family originated here, in the Mahgrebi lands. And we are still close enough to Italy to excuse my presence. We collect goods from the Orient before we travel and then make our way south east until we reach Berenice and someone accepts our offers of work. </p><p>We build our own home out of rough lumber and thick nails. Yusuf earns himself a fine reputation at the forge. He’s smithed for decades now and Berenicians are mystified by his great talent at such a young age. He makes weapons for soldiers, tools for farmers, and fine jewelry for artisans. They bring him materials and he fashions them into treasures. </p><p>I perform odd jobs about the town. Not from lack of skill, but rather a desire to help anyone with whatever it is they need assistance with that day. I cobble shoes that are in need of repairing. I farm when there are crops in need of being brought in. I instruct traveling merchants on the language and laws of the caliphate so they may sell their wares more effectively. I cook meals for families who are destitute. And best of all, I spend three hours each day with the local children too young to be working and too old to be underfoot. I show them how to tie knots to make fishing nets. I teach them how to mend clothing and how to tell which plants are safe to eat. I hunt with the boys and show them how to set snares so their families never need to worry about food. We even swim in the water, so they have no fear of drowning. </p><p>I am not always paid for my work, but sometimes I am gifted with fresh bread or good rope to use. I bring home my own hunts and cook dinner for Yusuf. He brings home his riches from the forge. We eat happily, and we eat well. I hope we can stay here for a few years. It will be some time before anyone notices we have not aged. But oh, it will be so lovely to rest here. To build something and watch it <em> grow. </em>Yes, I would like that indeed. </p>
<hr/><p>Lykon visits us some months after we settle in Berenice. He finds Yusuf in the forge and they are waiting for me when I finish with the children for the day. One of the children’s mother is giving birth, and I am late returning home as I keep the child away from the house until she has finished. The birth is successful, and I give thanks with their family before I leave. My mind is full of gifts we should give them. I could collect wood and carve a cradle, Yusuf could help me with the inlays. The family is poor and it would be a boon to them. I push open the door to tell Yusuf of my idea, when I see Lykon sitting at the table. </p><p>I forget the cradle entirely as I rush to embrace my brother. He laughs and holds out his arms, pulling me to his chest and patting my hair as I press my brow to his neck. “You’re here!” I say, stupid in my delight. I turn to Yusuf. “How long has he been here? I am so sorry, Amara and Ali Abdalla were blessed with their child tonight—”</p><p>“She is well?” </p><p>“She is well!” </p><p>“Praise be to God,” Yusuf says, making the sign his people make when they are saying their blessings. He is grinning too, though, pleased by my pleasure. He enjoys surprising me, and though this surprise could not have been of his making, I can see he is exhilarated in my delight. “He arrived just this afternoon. I was in the middle of crafting shoes for Hussein’s horses when a bold interloper made an even bolder comment on my work.” </p><p>“He is so good, isn’t he?” I ask Lykon, still pressed against his side. I have missed him, truly. </p><p>He pets my hair again, sliding his fingers through it like a child with their dog. “Yes, little brother, he’s good. Come, we have made dinner for you. Let us eat and you can tell me about this baby that kept you from our side, and of your life here in Berenice.” </p><p>“Where are Andromache? Quynh? Are they not with you?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen them without each other. I look around our small home as if they could possibly be hiding behind our sleeping mats or fire pit. </p><p>“No, I wished to visit on my own. To walk the earth on my own just for a time.” He settles me at the table and sits in the chair beside me. He unwinds himself from my body only so he can set bowls before us. Yusuf gathers the stew from where it had been cooking in the fire pit, and he serves us all our shares. </p><p>He sits across from me and his legs tangle with mine beneath the table. I languish in the warm comfort of his touch and Lykon’s presence. “You did not fight with them, did you?” I ask, uncertain what such a fight could possibly entail after so much time of dedicated love and passion between them all. </p><p>“No,” Lykon denies. He pats my arm again, and though he is smiling my stomach curls at the touch. I hesitate in spooning the rabbit stew between my teeth. I am confident it is good, the smell is enticing enough. But Lykon’s tone seems strange to my ear. His smiling seems too forced. I glance at Yusuf. He isn’t eating either. “I missed my little brothers,” Lykon says, impassioned and therefore most likely true. Though it is almost certainly not the whole truth. </p><p>I don’t know what to say to him. I feel unsteady. Awkward. “Lykon…”</p><p>“Nothing’s wrong!” He snaps.</p><p>“Don’t yell at Nicolo,” Yusuf snaps back. </p><p>“He is not a child, and neither are you,” Lykon returns. My throat feels tight. My hands fall to my lap. I think, absurdly, of my father. Long dead, but still a tyrant in the back of my mind, he used to yell at us over dinner. He’d drink wine by the bottle. It would dribble down his beard as he yelled. Lykon is clean shaven. His hair is wrapped in thick folds of fabric and his clothing is long and sweeping where my father’s was harsh and short. Still, the images overlap and I find myself numb at Lykon’s side, watching as he and Yusuf trade barbs with one another over something as silly as outward concern and a raised voice. </p><p>We do not have wine in our home. Andromache told us, once, that drink cannot corrupt our minds as it once could. It cannot make us angry and ill. It cannot put us in a stupor. We heal too quickly for such things. Our bodies protect us from the influence. Sometimes I miss the taste, but I find I do not often desire it. </p><p>I wonder if Lykon would have drunk it if he had access, if it would have an effect. I wonder if he would have sat, pouring himself drink after drink in hopes it would influence him in some way. He has never seemed interested in such things. He has never seemed many things that he seems today. </p><p>They are shouting now. Standing up and pointing at each other. I look between the two of them, not certain what grievances they are airing now. They’ve moved past Lykon’s perceived rudeness. I have not followed the argument close enough to have an opinion now. “Please,” I say. “Please stop.” Yusuf falls silent and Lykon swivels toward me. “Can we not be happy to see one another again, after so long?” </p><p>It seems to take a great effort for Lykon to agree. He breathes in harsh through his nose, loud enough that I can hear it course through his body before it exhales from his mouth. “Of course,” he spits out. He throws himself back in his chair. Yusuf slowly sits as well, though the tension has not left him. </p><p>“We are only concerned,” I tell Lykon. </p><p>“There’s no need,” he insists. </p><p>“Please, brother,” I stress the familiar. He was the first one to call me his brother. He was the first to embrace me into their family. I stress it now, because it is important to him, and he waivers beneath my care. “Please, tell us what brought you to us. We love you, and are here for you. Please, tell us the truth.” I touch his hand and he turns it over to catch my palm in a bruising grip. </p><p>The tension in his body dismantles muscle by muscle. He sags against the table. The fight leaves him as quick as it came, and he holds my hand as if I would dare let go. I do not. I never would. “I’m tired,” he says. “Why must we fight constantly? Why must we always bother with all of these <em> people? </em>What does it matter? There’s no purpose in any of it. We live on and on, and it does nothing. Why can we not just remove ourselves and be done with it. I wish all of mankind would burn away and just leave us in peace.”</p><p>His voice waivers as he speaks. It breaks here or there, but he musters the courage to continue onward, speaking words that must have haunted him for a lifetime. He squeezes my hand breathlessly tight, and I squeeze back. I am here, I think. I am here for you. But I do not know what to say. </p><p>“What happened?” Yusuf asks. </p><p>“Nothing,” Lykon insists. “It is the same as it always is. We go, we find a conflict, we fight. Andromache and Quynh love the fight. They flourish in it, and I am pleased to see them so delighted. But why bother? Why bother going through war after war? Why must we find every broken place and bathe it in the blood of their enemies. What’s the purpose of it all? You stopped fighting. Can we not also?” </p><p>“We didn’t,” I say. Lykon turns to me now. The weight of his gaze pins me to my seat. “We didn’t <em> stop </em>fighting...we just changed the method. I...I help the town. They have their needs and requests and I answer them. I build things. I...I help. And Yusuf too. We live as we do to give back to those who need it.” </p><p>His hand on mine hurts. It turns savage and he shifts his grip to snatch my wrist, pulling it roughly. I hiss as I’m nearly torn from my seat. Yusuf is back on his feat, their harmony broken once more. “Let him go,” Yusuf seethes. </p><p>Lykon glares at him. He jerks me harder and this time I do stumble. I catch myself on the table as my seat is dislodged beneath me. Lykon stands and I clumsily follow him. “Why?” he asks Yusuf. Then to me, <em> “Why bother </em> to help those <em> in need? </em> There will always be someone in need. There has always <em> been </em>someone in need. Why should I have to spend my eternity chasing everyone with a sore that needs bandaging?”</p><p>The bones in my wrist are starting to ache as he increases his pressure. “I don’t understand,” I tell him. I try to pull my wrist free, but his hold is too strong. Yusuf is coming around the table now, to break us apart. Lykon glowers at him and spins me like a dreidel. My feet are clumsy as I trip over them. My back is pulled to Lykon’s chest and my arm howls in pain as it is twisted around in a hold that will soon snap a bone if I continue to struggle. “Lykon, I don’t understand.” </p><p>“Let him <em> go, </em>” Yusuf snaps. “You came saying you missed your brothers. Is this how you miss us? So eager to harm us in our home?” </p><p>“What does it matter?” Lykon asks, fervently. He applies more pressure to my arm and I think, wildly that he’s going to break it. “He will heal.”</p><p>“But it hurts,” I say dumbly. “I don’t want to hurt.” And just like that the pressure is gone. He releases my wrist. I trip over myself at the disbursement of weight, but Yusuf catches me and runs a soothing palm along my arm until all the tension and pain is eased away.</p><p>Lykon watches us. He looks over our huddled forms and his eyes sparkle with tears. “Oh my little brother, I am sorry. I must be mad to hurt you so.” </p><p>“Then why <em> did </em>you?” Yusuf growls, still holding me to his chest in protective embrace. </p><p>His question is met only with tears. Great tears slip down Lykon’s cheeks and he stumbles back until he returns to his seat. He sits and presses his hands to his eyes. He sobs at our table as we stare at his trembling form. For several minutes we do not speak. We merely observe as Lykon cries. My heart aches for him. I gently remove myself from Yusuf’s arms and I kneel before our brother. </p><p>I hold him to me, and he returns the hug. His touch is warm and desperate. There is no pain. Behind me, I hear Yusuf sigh and approach. He places a hand on my head, but then wraps an arm around Lykon as well. “I hate this world,” Lykon tells us. “They do not deserve us. They do not deserve your efforts or Andromache and Quynh’s blades. They should all just die.” </p><p>“What happened?” we ask again, and again, and again. </p><p>He does not tell us. </p><p>And in the morning, when we wake from the bleary eyed slumber that we had managed to fall into when it was far too late in the evening, Lykon is gone. He left without saying goodbye, and if it were not for the third bowl still set on the table, I might have believed the whole night to have been a dream. “Will he be all right?” I ask Yusuf before he leaves for the forge. He pauses at the door, considering. </p><p>“I think he is not himself without Andromache and Quynh. I hope they reunite soon.” It is not quite an answer, but it is the truth nonetheless. </p>
<hr/><p>It is a year later when we receive our next visitor. </p><p>This time, we are both already home. We are playing chess, moving pieces about the board and discussing whether we should encourage young Khaled Farhat’s intention to become a merchant. The boy is hopeless with numbers, though he has an eye for the exquisite. If he had an honest partner, he could do well in the field. But where to find such an associate? Who to trust? </p><p>The knock comes just as I take his horse and put him in check. He scowls at me. I smile in delight. He knows as well as I, this game is soon to be mine. Standing up, I tease him not to change the pieces while my back is turned. He makes a show of doing just that, and I laugh as I go to greet our guest. Opening the door, my laughter turns sharper in delight. “Andromache!” I hear Yusuf standing behind me. I wrap my arms around her, ducking my head to her shoulder as she cradles the back of my skull. I pull away and spot Quynh just a pace behind. </p><p>Passing Andromache to Yusuf I collect Quynh in my arms, hugging her slight body tight and firm. “How are you? Oh it is so good to see you!” I twist my head about. “Is Lykon not with you?” I ask. “Did you not reconnect?” Quynh shook her head. </p><p>“Inside, Nicolo, please.” It is so somber a request that I draw back, startled and afraid. </p><p>“Quynh?” </p><p>“Inside.” She threads her fingers through mine and pulls me back through the door. She closes it behind us. Yusuf and Andromache have already finished their greetings. The women divest themselves of their traveling things. Their weapons clank against our floor. “You should sit,” Quynh tells us. </p><p>Fear builds in my throat. It pulses through me in waves so sharp I can smell it. I turn to Yusuf. Desperate and pleading. He comes to my side. He wraps an arm around my body. “Tell us,” he commands. </p><p>“Lykon is dead,” Andromache says. She did not wait for us to sit. I wish I’d listened to Quynh. My knees tremble. Yusuf’s firm grasp keeps me upright, but I cannot breathe. I’ve lost the ability to know how. </p><p>Yusuf says, “I don’t understand.” </p><p>And they tell us a story. </p><p>Lykon did return to them. He apologized to them for leaving. He told them how we were doing, and where we lived. He expressed his desire to no longer fight, and they agreed that they would take some time away from it all in order to see what they wanted to do and when. Not long after, they were attacked on the road by bandits. They fought, same as they always did. Only one bandit managed a lucky blow against Lykon’s side. He collapsed, and he never rose again. </p><p>When he died, they said he seemed relieved. His many years had come to an end and he could finally find peace. </p><p>“Yusuf,” I whisper. He does not need more. He pulls me to a seat and sets me into it. I collapse against the table. My head folds into my hands and I find myself unconsciously making a sign to pray. I think of Lykon’s last visit. His desperate pleas for it all to be over. Did he know, then, how close it was to ending? </p><p>“Why?” Yusuf asks. “Why now?” </p><p>“We don’t know,” Quynh replies. </p><p>“He’s younger than you,” Yusuf continues. Dogged. He wants to know the answer. His mind is a scientist’s mind. He is desperate for clarification so he can adequately plan. “How did he die before you?”</p><p>“We don’t know.” </p><p>“How many times did he die? Did he die more than you? Is there a number?” </p><p>“We don’t know.” </p><p>Yusuf curses. The words slip from his tongue like water. He kicks a chair and it tumbles across the room. Then he collapses at my side. He pulls my hands roughly into his. “I will not lose you,” he tells me.</p><p>“I’m not the one who died,” I reply. But it is numb. Unfeeling. I struggle to process precisely what has happened. It takes me so long to understand that Yusuf is fearing for something that has not yet happened. Oh, I think. If Lykon died, so can we. </p><p>Oh, I think. I might lose Yusuf. </p><p>Tears break free from my eyes and I fall to my knees to embrace him. I weep into his shoulder and wave Andromache and Quynh closer. Please, I think, please don’t leave me. Lykon is gone. Oh, God, Lykon is <em> gone. </em>I sob harder and harder. Their arms are like cages and comfort in one. We weep through the night and into the next day. </p><p>We have an eternity to grieve. </p><p>Or rather, we have only a long time.</p><p>All things must die. It is a fact as true as life. I’d merely forgotten it in my bliss.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Merrick said that something happened between Sudan and when he captured them that caused Andromache to lose her immortality. </p><p>On my third re-watch I was struck by her comment that the world could just burn for all she cared. Throughout the movie, their constant presence as those who did good and fought for the weak was profound. It made me wonder if the end of her immortality came from her decision that the world no longer was worth saving. And so this story was formed.</p><p>You can find me at falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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